


"Never again," is what you swore (the time before)

by NeverwinterThistle



Series: Policy of Truth [2]
Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 4
Genre: M/M, Side Stories
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-24
Updated: 2016-04-23
Packaged: 2018-05-28 21:40:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,203
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6346423
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NeverwinterThistle/pseuds/NeverwinterThistle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Break time,” Isaac decides. “I have mines, tripwire, I can rig up some traps. Do you have any valid objections to holing up inside this train, or can I go all Ghostbusters on whatever’s living in there?”</p><p>“You could do that,” Deacon agrees. “You know what would be even more fun? Puddle hopping. This subway’s like one big puddle wonderland, my mind is genuinely blown. Come and hop with me, Isaac, you could use a little joy in your bitter, buzz-killing existence.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. And Now, the Weather

**Author's Note:**

> I needed somewhere to store all the random side stories I write about these two. There's still an overarching plot that I'm working on, but in the meantime I keep getting sidetracked by shiny, shiny prompts. This time the prompt was [this (SFW) photo.](https://56.media.tumblr.com/06546c6df7afc7b102f678181abdcd71/tumblr_o3hqunONU71v2py1ao1_500.jpg)

It’s sometime after midnight by his Pip-Boy’s clock, as if that means anything this far underground. Slime mold slick on the walls, wading through ankle-high liquid he hopes to god is rainwater. It won’t be, of course. That’s just how his luck goes these days.

Given how often he ends up in places like this, Isaac is starting to think wistfully about the benefits of cauterizing the insides of his nostrils.

“Your ‘package’ is late,” he says bitingly, wincing as something crunches under his left boot. _Not going to look. Don’t want to know_. “What the hell kind of delivery service are we running here? Don’t they know people have other things to do than hang around waiting for the mailman? ‘Efficient’, my ass.”

“Mail delivery’s serious business out there,” Deacon tells him. “It’s hard enough finding someone to sign for anything. Spelling is _difficult_. It’s like asking a mutie committee to solve Enigma. And that’s even before we get into the workplace hazards; rad storms, sprained ankles, wind burn, murder by giant, mutant skunks. You wouldn’t believe some of the complaints we see down in Human Resources.” He sloshes through the sludge at Isaac’s side, apparently still cheerful. Or maybe so tired he doesn’t know where he is anymore. The very fact that he’s making noise at all suggests the latter.

After a full day and night spent trying to clear a route for this ‘delivery’, Isaac can sympathise. Caffeine tablets and Nuka Cola only go so far.

“Tell Human Resources to get their shit together,” he snaps. “Subway’s pretty much clear, like Carrington wanted, but I never agreed to spending the night down here waiting. If he wants that, he can pay me by the hour.”

“Scared of the dark? _Relax_ , pal, I’ll protect you if the boogeyman comes calling. We’re old friends. We have an arrangement involving blood sacrifice and mint choc chip cookies on leap years.”

Isaac glances up at the pale gold light bulbs above, flickering weak in the haze. The lights alone are a problem, though nobody back at HQ seemed inclined to listen when he pointed it out. Subways don’t _have_ working lighting unless someone goes to the trouble of fixing up the power supply. Raiders, mobsters, the wealthier scavvers; working lights mean people with resources worth stealing. They invite trouble. Not to mention ghouls.

They also cast dancing shadows on the dripping walls, and if he keeps jerking around because it feels like the bricks are starting to close on him, that’s not his fault. He’s going to start shooting lights out any second now. If he makes it dark enough, Deacon might actually have to remove his damn sunglasses to see.

It’s a miserable job, and Isaac suffers best when everyone else around him is suffering too.

A few feet ahead, something protrudes from the water like a landmass at sea. Isaac raises his shotgun; takes aim, lets loose. The gunshot echoes back at him, but his ears have long since given up on ringing, and the ghoul doesn’t move.

“Thirty-one,” he announces. “ _Winning_.”

“Oh, you cheater. It doesn’t count if they’re pre-corpsed for your convenience.”

“That one was moving.”

“Meat on the slab.” Deacon gives an abrupt laugh, higher in pitch than his usual. “Meat on the slab,” he repeats. “Man, the connotations on that are _all_ messed up. That’s, like, borderline cannibalistic imagery, assuming we still count ghouls as humans, which, obviously. And assuming we want to eat them. You don’t want to eat the ghouls, right, Isaac?”

“What, on top of my amazing molerat meatloaf dinner?” Isaac raises his eyebrows as Deacon repeats the strange laugh. “What the hell is wrong with you? Knock it off.”

“Three days, two nights, no sleep,” Deacon tells him cheerfully. “I’m starting to hallucinate baby blue baboons. You want to play I Spy while we’re down here? Guarantee I’ll win, I have the imagination for it.”

“You pick the best possible time to tell me I can’t rely on you,” Isaac says, but he’s not serious. Dead on his feet or not, Deacon’s been keeping up with him just fine all evening. Watching his back, counting his kills, whining incessantly about his shoes getting ruined. “And I’d rather play I Spy with the baboons than you. What are the chances of our delivery getting here anytime soon?”

“Slim to nada,” Deacon says.

“I figured as-”

“Zilch, zip, nothing, _niente_ , a snowball’s hope in hell, there is a zero percent chance of rainfall in the Commonwealth this evening, and now here’s Paul with the sports highlights. Paul, my man, how have our Swatters been swatting today?”

Isaac knows better than to close his eyes, but god, he wishes he could. Squeeze them shut, block out the incoming headache he feels starting to press against on his skull. Block out the chill, while he’s at it: his boots are leather, waterproof, but his pants are soaked to the knees. They’re sticking. Standard military discomfort; doesn’t mean he’s enjoying it. And the exhaustion is just the cherry on top of the sewer-scented cake.

Up ahead, a boxy shadow takes on train form, somehow still sitting on its rails. They’ve passed several already. He’s got his strategy down: storm the narrow corridors, eliminate movement with grenades. Mop up the survivors with due efficiency, and try not to look too closely at what he’s killing.

This one’s in better shape than the last two. Windows intact; the peeling paint is a natural result of time, not grasping ghoul claws. If nothing else, at least it’ll be dry.

“Break time,” Isaac decides. “I have mines, tripwire, I can rig up some traps. Do you have any valid objections to holing up inside this train, or can I go all Ghostbusters on whatever’s living in there?”

“You could do that,” Deacon agrees. “You know what would be even more fun? Puddle hopping. This subway’s like one big puddle wonderland, my mind is genuinely blown. Come and hop with me, Isaac, you could use a little joy in your bitter, buzz-killing existence.”

Isaac stares him down. At least, he assumes he does; the sunglasses make a proper contest impossible, and he’s far too tired to give it a decent effort. But Deacon looks away first, if only to half-heartedly kick brownish water in Isaac’s direction, and that’s more than enough of an incentive not to stay out here a moment longer.

“Wait here,” Isaac says, and forces the nearest door open.

Small mercies, the train turns out to be empty. He’s not totally surprised: they stopped finding active ghouls well over an hour ago. The live ones come running at the sound of gunfire, like mosquitoes to porch lamps. They come in waves. The first few are always an exercise in not getting swamped. Survive those, though, and it’s plain sailing. He’d put money on the subway being empty by this stage.

Doesn’t mean he’s totally alone. The faded seats are dotted with debris, newspapers and scraps of cloth, suitcases and skeletons.

The dead don’t bother him. Never have; he’s seen enough of them to know it’s not bones he needs to be afraid of. Skeletons don’t snatch at his ankles as he passes. They don’t live on, long past the stage where radiation melts their brains down to animalistic hunger and rage. Bones are bones. He ignores them, and moves on with his mission.

“Train’s clear,” he calls to Deacon, holding the doors pointedly open. “We’re not going anywhere until you’ve had two hours of sleep, minimum.”

Deacon looks up from his place at a nearby wall. Chalk in hand, scrawling lines into the damp brick. An arrow pointing to the exit. “Just in case we get lost bringing our package through,” he says. He sounds almost normal again. Isaac might believe it if the chalk lines weren’t quite so shaky. Deacon’s hands don’t shake. Or rather, they shouldn’t. When they do, it’s high time for an intervention from someone who cares a lot less about the _package_ than he does.

“Sleep,” Isaac orders. “Now. That’s about as simplified as I can make it, so either you get in here willingly and let me start setting up traps, or I’m going to carry you.”

“Aw, honey, you don’t gotta do that for little old me.”

“I can guarantee you won’t enjoy it, _princess._ ” And maybe it’s the tone, or he’s just done with arguing, but Deacon picks that moment to surrender. He climbs into the train car, patting Isaac’s chest as he passes. Pushing the piece of chalk into his hand.

“Hold this for me,” Deacon says seriously. “Guard it with your life. This chalk has influence. It has _contacts_. You don’t want anyone hearing you mistreated it, on pain of the Chalk Godfather leaving white horse heads between your sheets. It’s true. I know a guy whose cousin got done that way; not sure why, but I always chalked it up to him being kind of an asshole. Man, I’m funny. Where are we doing this sleeping thing, by the way? Because my standards are pretty high, and I’m kind of dubious about the accommodations here.”

Isaac shoves the chalk into a pocket and follows him down the train. “Oh, it’s all five star luxury here. Dust. Corpses. You get comfortable, baby, I’ll fetch the champagne and strawberries.”

It strikes him, as he gets to work stretching tripwire across a doorway, that once upon a time this whole situation would have been asking for trouble. Abandoned train in an empty subway, weak lights flickering in the tunnel. Could be the setting for a sub-par horror flick; a zombie slasher he wouldn’t have minded seeing while off-duty, back in the day. Hollywood gore never pissed him off as much as it did some of the other soldiers. But then, horror films never got to him either. He’d always assumed it was his lack of imagination.

Isaac peers through a dusty glass window. The subway is quiet enough. Water drips irregular somewhere nearby, but it’s distant enough to ignore. He wonders where it all came from. Burst sewer pipes seem likely; storm drains rerouted by bomb damage. There may even be holes in the ceiling. Now there’s an uncomfortable thought.

 _Only thing better than a ghoul-infested subway is a ghoul-infested subway with poor structural integrity._ He shakes the thought off as soon as it occurs.

Trip wire set and landmines primed across the first doorway, Isaac retreats back into their chosen rail car. He picks his way over the odd fallen suitcase. Ignores them; Deacon’s already at work on unlocking one, sleep apparently forgotten.

“Looting can wait,” Isaac says, pushing carelessly past on his way to the opposite door. Deacon makes an idle grab for his ankles, and dodges the retaliatory kick Isaac aims at his arm.

“Kicking a guy while he’s down? I see how it is. When I get this open and find a veritable _treasure trove_ of Fancy Lads Snacks, I ain’t sharing.”

“Wouldn’t touch those things if you paid me,” Isaac says, kneeling in the doorway with his tripwire. “I’ve seen the expiry dates.”

“Still taste good.”

“And that doesn’t set off any alarm bells for you?”

He doesn’t have to turn to hear Deacon’s shrug, the rustle of his hostler shifting on his shoulder. “What are they going to do, give me cancer? Tell ‘em to get in line behind bacon and skinny dipping. And, you know. _Breathing_. You gotta let a guy have a few joys in life, or what’s the _point_?”

He sounds so genuinely agitated that Isaac bites down on a comeback. Deacon’s right; there isn’t any point. No point at all in arguing with a partner so exhausted he’s spent a full five minutes trying to get one suitcase open. Five minutes and counting.

“Time’s up.” Isaac stands back from the active trap, sliding the door gently closed behind it. “How’s your lock coming along?”

“It’s mocking me,” Deacon says, aggrieved. He drops a bent bobby pin onto the floor and slaps the suitcase. “Security’s extra tight on this one, I say we pressure it until it spills the goods. Good cop, bad cop, you and me, let’s do this. Make it _talk_ , Isaac. I know a sleeper agent when I see one, and I’m looking at one right now.”

“You’re right, that suitcase has KGB written all over it.”

“It’s clearly a spy.”

“Probably a Communist.” Isaac grabs a fistful of Deacon’s jacket, hauling him upright. It’s not unlike hefting a sack of unwieldy equipment, power armour parts and mods for his favourite rifle. He forces one of Deacon’s arms around his shoulders, grabbing the other man around the waist with his free hand. Providing just enough incentive to get Deacon over to the closest seat.

Isaac slumps down next to him, sliding his shotgun off his shoulder. He rests it on the seat and stretches. “Your Railroad agent might try to just bring the package through alone, if we’re not around. We’ll hear them coming. It’s fine.”

“Better be,” Deacons says. “After the work we put into cleaning this place up for guests. My knees are raw from all that scrubbing. And that’s not even getting started on the state of my fingernails. Why not just dress me up in a French maid costume and be done with it? If I’m doing the work, I want to look the part.”

Isaac tilts his head to look at the other man. Deacon slumps back against the seat, his scalp pressed again the window pane. His wig is slipping; his sunglasses might as well be welded in place.

“Did you seriously go two nights without sleep?” He doesn’t really need to ask. Deacon’s face sags with exhaustion. In his lap, his fingers are twitching.

“Cat-napped a few times,” Deacon mutters. “While you were awake. It’s hard to sleep at HQ.”

“Switchboard memories?”

“Bingo.”

“Shit.” Isaac leans his own head back against the seat. It’s not the most comfortable thing in the world, but he’s slept on worse. The skeleton a few feet to his left is a novelty. He supposes he should be grateful it’s not trying to talk his ear off. “I’m staying upright, I’m armed, we’ve got traps on both doors, and it’s dark in here. Nobody’s going to sneak up on us. You might as well get some rest. After I went to all that trouble of booking us this five star suite.”

“I do like the Jacuzzi,” Deacon mumbles. “’Kay. Great. Listen, in the interests of national security, I’m gonna need to commandeer your shoulder for the next few hours. It’s, like, super important. Life or death situation. Trust me, I’m a doctor.”

“Knock yourself out.”

“Don’t mind if I do.” Deacon doesn’t bother to aim; he tips over sideways, slumping, leaving Isaac with the task of maneuvering them into a somewhat comfortable position. He ends up with Deacon’s forehead pressed into the crook of his neck, the wig tickling his jaw. Isaac figures he should maybe complain. This isn’t the kind of behavior he wants to encourage out in the field.

He does appreciate that Deacon managed to angle himself so that the sunglasses don’t dig into anything painful. The extra warmth is also welcome; his pants are still soaked from knee to ankle, and the rail car might be dry, but it’s in the middle of an abandoned, unheated subway. They can’t risk a campfire down here. Their options are huddle up or shiver alone.

Deacon breathes against his neck. He’s totally silent about it.

“You ready to sleep, or do I have to tell you a story?” There’s a second skeleton on Deacon’s other side, collapsed against the seat railing. Most of its clothes are still in place. Faded suit, shoes, striped tie hanging precarious around a bony neck.

 _You take me to the nicest places_ , Isaac thinks, leaning his cheek against Deacon’s head.

“Did you check under the bed for monsters?” Deacon mumbles. “You know how I get about monsters.”

“I checked. Shot the monsters full of metal, they’re not coming out tonight.”

“And the closet?”

“Land mines.”

“That’ll show ‘em.”

Isaac reaches for the shotgun, tugging it across his lap. He keeps his fingers well away from the trigger; last thing they need right now is an accident. The traps will keep anything nasty out. At the very least they’ll provide enough warning to wake someone up. And while the glass may not be bulletproof, it’s also plenty loud when smashed.

He can probably afford to rest.

“Did I ever tell you about that time I was a train conductor?” Deacon whispers.

“No,” Isaac says. “Was this before or after that time you were a dentist?”

“Shit was awesome, man, I had the most outrageous hat. One look at that thing, your ears started ringing; that’s how loud it screamed ‘overcompensating for a really tiny penis.’ Which is most of the reason why I quit. Overqualified.”

Isaac smiles. He can’t help himself. “Definitely.”

“I do miss it a little though,” Deacon says into his neck. “I liked the trains. How they felt on the rails, the feeling of travelling miles in minutes. How they sounded. _Choo, choo_.” He sighs; moments later, his breathing starts to slow. He slumps heavily onto Isaac’s shoulder. Dead weight.

 _Thank Christ for that_ , Isaac thinks. _Peace and quiet. Lots and lots of quiet._

There are moments above ground where he can almost forget that the world fell apart while he slept. Between Railroad missions and Minutemen work, clearing raider camps for merchants; he’s kept himself busy enough not to think. The world went to hell, and then it came back again. People moved on. And Isaac spent so much time on the Anchorage battlefield that widespread destruction is barely even jarring anymore. Most of the time, he forgets. He ignores it.

That’s not an option down here. Might be all the bones; might be the silence. In all his life, he’s never known a world this absent of sound. Absent of life. It’s oppressive. Heavy.

Isaac swallows down a sudden lump in his throat. He won’t lie to himself; he’s not Deacon. He has feelings, on occasion, whether he wants them or not. This is fear. Uncertainty. And, buried deep underneath that, it’s something that borders on grief. He never had much of a home outside the barracks, but he’s never going back. Couldn’t even if he wanted to. Abruptly, he wants to.

“You’ve tensed up,” Deacon whispers, and Isaac twitches in surprise. “Are we having a senior moment? Contemplating the meaning of life? Regressing back to our former icicle self?”

“Thought you were asleep.”

“I’d love to be, pal, but it’s kind of hard to get there when you’re projecting all your issues in bolded size two hundred font. _Underlined_. You know how distracting that is?”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Isaac says.

“Maybe you could tap it out in Morse Code? Draw me a picture? I have some inkblot cards you could look at. If you see butterflies and clouds, you know your brain hasn’t started leaking down your spinal column, it’s super scientific. You okay?” Deacon’s tone changes with the last question. Isaac keeps his eyes fixed on the seats opposite; he can feel the other man looking at him.

“Mostly,” he says. “Not right now. Look,-”

“That’s a sign of sanity,” Deacon tells him. “Just ignore whatever Carrington wrote in your psych eval, he doesn’t know shit. If you’re not okay, that means you are. You only gotta start worrying if you’re okay when you feel like you actually are okay, because that’s a sign that you’re losing it, which is kind of what happened to my last partner. I may have contributed to the problem. Three days of Gilbert and Sullivan medleys on repeat. I ain’t even sorry.”

“This is why you keep getting kicked out of HQ.” Isaac leans his cheek on Deacon’s forehead again, slumping further in the seat to make the position almost comfortable. His clothes are wet, dinner was ages ago, and he’s almost worn down enough to see if Deacon wants to hold hands. For…companionship. For not feeling quite so lost.

He exhales slowly, and keeps his hands on the shotgun in his lap.

“I think I’m having a minor existential crisis,” he says distantly. “It’s all kinds of uncomfortable. You’re the amateur shrink, how do I deal?”

“Walk it off?”

“That’s what I usually do.”

“Goddammit, Isaac,” Deacon says into his shirt. “And you never thought about telling anyone? Of course not.”

“World ended. What’s talking about it going to fix? I can’t ever go back. Unless the Institute has time machines, in which case I’m definitely selling your people out for an alliance.”

“If you’re going to stab me in the back, at least hold out for something better than some boring old time machine. A pony, maybe. Always wanted one of those. Though I guess I’d be too dead to appreciate it.” And he can feel Deacon struggling to hold back a yawn; jaw muscles clenching tight against Isaac’s shoulder, trying so hard to hide it. He knows that if he decides he wants to talk, Deacon will listen. He’ll hold up the weight of sleepless nights and take Isaac’s stupid problems on top of that. He’d do that. He cares that much.

“Next time, I’ll think about talking it over,” Isaac promises. He’s surprised to find he means it. “We can have a campfire heart-to-heart. I’ll punch things and cry. Therapy. That work for you?”

“Mhm,” Deacon says. He wriggles, and one of his hands loops through the crook of Isaac’s elbow, squeezing. He leaves it there. “Sure thing. Now shut up and sleep, or I’ma start singing lullabies. You want some of my Broadway repertoire? I save the good stuff for my closest pals; for you, I’ll go full Les Mis. How ‘bout that, huh? _I dreamed a dream in time gone by…_ ”

He hums until his breathing eases up, and his head presses heavy into Isaac’s shoulder.

 _Crisis averted,_ Isaac thinks, and with enough conviction that he can almost believe it. At this rate, he’s going to have to veto subways in future missions. They make him nostalgic. Emotional. Ridiculous. There’s not much he hates more than feeling like an idiot. Next time he’ll escort the damn synth himself, and there won’t be any of this covert underground bullshit. Like he can’t clear out an inconvenient raider camp or two. He could do it with his eyes closed.

Speaking of which.

Isaac closes his eyes, shutting out the empty train. He lets his breathing fall into a pattern with Deacon’s, an even _in and out_ , until his thoughts slow down to match.

 _Goddamn subways,_ he thinks. _I’m bringing Carrington a souvenir. Human skull, maybe. Deacon can carry it. Guy could use a few more friends._

With this in mind, he lets himself sleep.


	2. Safe as Houses

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fill for a [kink meme prompt](http://falloutkinkmeme.livejournal.com/6855.html?thread=17457351#t17457351). Another Depeche Mode title! This time it's [Never Let Me Down Again](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=snILjFUkk_A). Deacon's fear of heights finally comes back to bite him.

“Check it out,” Isaac says, leaning out into the wind. “I can see HQ from here. I bet Tom’s going to stay up waiting for those MILA readings.” Tears are forming in the corners of his eyes; he blinks them away, grinning. He feels almost weightless.

“Give the man enough Jet, he can go a week without sleeping,” Deacon says somewhere behind him. “I’ve seen it happen. Though by the end of it he’d started speaking in tongues; something about foiling Institute eavesdroppers, maybe? I’d say he was just doing it to piss us all off, but that’s more my area of expertise. Hey, uh…”

“Yeah?” Isaac doesn’t turn his head.

“I’m not trying to tell you how to live your life, but maybe you’d like to consider not standing so close to the edge?”

Isaac’s grin widens. He tugs lightly on the metal pole he’s holding. It’s steady. Part of the scaffolding, he’d guess, back when the Tower had even more floors than it does now. He shuffles further out; his toes hang out over the Commonwealth. _King of the world._ “Wait, let me think about it. Uh, no. I can see the whole city from up here! Hey, you think that greenish bit over there is the Glowing Sea? _Damn_.”

“I’m trying my best not to see _anything_ ,” Deacon snaps. “Me and the ground, we’ve got this thing going on, you know? Real special kind of relationship. And I’m feeling like we’ve gotten a little distant recently, which sucks, ‘cause I really treasure what we have.”

“Uh-huh. Okay, that’s definitely HQ.  Always wondered who it was that kept lighting that lantern in the church spire; does Tom have some kind of button he presses that just does the work for you?”

“We make Drummer Boy do it,” Deacon says, and he’s definitely pissed about something. It can’t be the dead super mutants; they’ve talked it over, and he’s cool with mass mutant murder. Eager, even. Raiders don’t come quite so easy, and he’s only barely alright with shutting hostile synths down, but muties are a different story. That can’t be the issue.

Maybe he wasn’t happy about the one they let go. Maybe they should have discussed it as a team first. But it’s too late for _maybe_ , and Isaac doesn’t generally waste time of regretting decisions after the fact. He switches tactics; damage control. Distract, redirect, cheer Deacon up before the sulk sets in to stay.

“Weird fact for you,” Isaac says. “You like those, right? I think I read somewhere that this is the tallest tower in the city. Least, it was two centuries ago. Sixty stories, or thereabouts. It was in the newspaper.”

“You don’t fucking say?”

“I’m not really sure what your problem is right now, but passive-aggressive is not a trait I appreciate in a partner.” Isaac glances over his shoulder. By the semi-collapsed staircase, Deacon glares at him through dusty sunglasses. “What, you didn’t like me letting Strong go? I thought he was great. _Milk of human kindness_? Seriously? They’d have fun with him in Goodneighbor.” He laughs, the wind wailing siren-like in his ears, and for once Deacon doesn’t join in.

“It’s not the concept of mutie Macbeth I have a _problem_ with,” the other man says. “In fact, I’d be happy to give him a few pointers, maybe let him raid my fancy hat collection. We should go and do that. If we hurry, we might be able to catch him- on the ground.”

“He said he’d wait for us,” Isaac says, turning back to the view. This high, the air is ice on his cheeks. It tastes clean; he’d almost forgotten what that was like. And maybe he’s just imagining things- he regrets not paying more attention in the radiation briefings, back in the day. He doesn’t _know_ if he’s taking in fewer rads up here than on ground level. Science wasn’t ever his strong suit.

War, on the other hand. Isaac leans out as far as he dares, triceps tensing to keep himself anchored. He could map the city from up here. It’s too high to snipe anyone effectively, but he could probably kill people with dropped pebbles. Save on ammo. The ground is a long, long way off.

“I feel like the French probably have a word for this,” he remarks. “That thing where you look out over the edge, and it feels almost tempting? The French have a word for all kinds of weird shit. The _call of the void_.” He’s pushing the boundaries of good taste, he knows. It’s practically a hobby by this stage. Graveyard humour; the soldier’s best friend.

He hears Deacon approaching, slow and careful. Unusual. The man so rarely makes a sound when he moves.

“I’m going to grab you now,” Deacon says. “And then I am going to drag you back to that nice, functioning elevator we found, and we’re going to ride it all the way down. Don’t fight me on this, because I will do it at gunpoint if I have to. Call it an intervention.”

Isaac snorts with laughter. Reluctantly, he turns his face away from the wind. Steps back to safety. “My guns are bigger than yours.” He’s holding out for the comeback, the inevitable _not all of them, babe, and I measured real carefully_ that he’s ready to pounce on and exploit; if the wasteland’s changed him in any way, it’s made him more of an opportunist.

Deacon just stares at him. Mouth tight, turned down at the corners. “Whatever. Can we just get a move on, please? I have, like, appointments to keep. Eyebrow waxing. Therapy session. Important Railroad business.”

“I thought that was what we were doing? Set up the sensor, help Tom prove his terraforming theory, clear out some of the local mutie population while we’re here?” Isaac reaches for his rucksack, where he set it down earlier. Tom’s machine is still functioning despite a couple of near misses with enemy gunfire. He holds it out to Deacon. “I’ll even let you choose where we put it?”

“Right here is fine.”

“That’s not what Tom said,” Isaac objects. “Has to be on an overhang, as high up as we can get it. Were you seriously not paying attention? We’re gonna start having issues if you’re relying on me to remember mission parameters. Me meat shield, you intel, remember? That’s how you phrased it.”

“My words were taken out of context,” Deacon says. “Look, just…fine. God forbid we don’t obey Tom’s exacting and probably unnecessary instructions, despite the fact that he was high as a kite when he gave them. And never mind that this is the fifth weird sensor we’ve placed, with zero return on the information front.”

“Tom said he needed lots of data.”

“ _Dez_ only agreed because Tom also promised to include cameras on these things. I don’t think she realises how useless those will be; we’re way too high up to get anything useful out of ‘em.”

“Since when do we give a damn what Dez wants?” Isaac doesn’t wait for an answer. Stepping over super mutant corpses, he makes for the metal ladder leading up to the next story. Seems to be the highest place around, or what’s left of it, at least. Here, the walls are skeletal, the floor blasted rough by wind. Some of the scaffolding looks pretty stable though; he spots a metal beam sticking out over the air, and thinks, _that’ll do._

“You’re not seriously going out there,” Deacon says. He clambers up the ladder behind Isaac, taking twice as long to make it up. That too is unusual. “I’m telling you, right here is _fine_. It’s great. The cameras can be useless to Dez and the sensors can be useless to Tom, and if either of them complain then you can send them my way.”

“But you know how much I love having Desdemona lecture me.”

“I’ll lecture you myself,” Deacon says sharply. “Get away from that death trap.”

“The death trap is calling to me. It’s saying, ‘put the MILA here, Isaac! Think about all the yummy data you’ll get!’” It’s not his best Tom impersonation, but he tends to leave that kind of thing to Deacon. When his partner isn’t sulking, that is. “Feel free to let me know what’s bugging you at any time. I’m doing Railroad work here, you should be happy.”

“Just set up the fucking sensor.”

Isaac throws him an incredulous look. That’s not a tone he’s heard much from Deacon; not a tone he’s _ever_ heard directed towards himself, and he’s very much not a fan of it. As far as he can tell, he’s done nothing to deserve that kind of attitude.

 _Screw you too,_ he thinks, turning away with gritted teeth. _That’ll teach me to be helpful._

He’s about to step out onto the beam when the super mutants make an appearance.

They come from below, and he hears them long before they’re in view; roaring over their fallen family members. Or…friends. Or however it is that mutants choose to cluster. They’re following the trail of blood Isaac tends to leave, and one mutie alone isn’t much more than an irritation, but three is a source of mild concern. Especially given that he left his rucksack and most of his weapons on the next floor down. Not the smartest thing he’s ever done. One of these days, being cocky is going to get him killed.

Isaac tosses the MILA to Deacon and draws his shotgun.

“You place the sensor,” he says, making his way over to the ladder and crouching, ready. “I’ll keep them off our backs. Better hurry up, we’re going to run out of daylight soon.” Deacon doesn’t reply.

It’s not a difficult fight, but he takes his time with it. The sun is low over the horizon, stretching long shadows across the building. He has a fair amount of ammo, but not enough to go wild. And that’s his own fault. One of these days, he might even learn to be more careful.

“We’re clear,” he says as the last mutant falls, toppling off the edge of the tower. “Ready to go?” He glances behind him.

Deacon’s placed the MILA unit as far out as it’ll go, securing it with the extra strong tape Tom provided for just this purpose. He’s sitting next to it, straddling the beam, facing Isaac. For some reason, he isn’t moving.

“Deacon?” Isaac calls. “Muties are dead, MILA’s planted, we’re all done. You can come back now.”

Deacon laughs. The sound is high, shaky; like nothing Isaac’s ever heard from him before. “Don’t think I can do that, champ.”

“Sure you can. Just crawl back this way-“

“Isaac,” Deacon says. “Shut up for once and listen. I _can’t_. I was hoping we could maybe avoid this, because I’ve put a lot of effort into making sure it doesn’t become an issue for our little team thing, but you just had to fucking push, didn’t you? Well, I hope you’re happy. I’m totally locked up. Can’t move a muscle. You know that thing corpses do when they go all stiff and you have to start snapping fingers to get at the awesome loot? Yeah. That’s me right now. I’ve gone full corpseicle.”

And suddenly, it all makes sense. “You’re scared of heights.”

“You’re a fucking genius, you know that? Top marks for observation.”

“Okay, I’m not the bad guy here,” Isaac says. He makes his way to the beam, moving slow. “I get that honesty is something you like to wave at as you illegally overtake, but some stuff you actually do have to tell me. _Partners_ , remember? I needed to know this.” He stops at the edge of the beam, where concrete floor gives way to open air. The wind picks that moment to rise, ravaging his face. He can practically see Deacon’s knuckles whiten.

“It’s too late for honesty,” Deacon tells him. There’s an edge of hysteria to his tone; he sounds seconds away from starting to giggle. “I’m done for. Cremate my corpse, toss the ashes into a sewer somewhere, then have the dramatic, tear-filled funeral over an empty grave. White roses would be appreciated.”

“I’m getting you down,” Isaac says firmly. “I promised Strong we’d do a Macbeth recital with him, and by ‘we’ I meant ‘you’, because like hell am I going anywhere near that bullshit. Come on. Just crawl towards me, I’ll grab you.”

“How many different ways do you need me to tell you that I can’t move?” Deacon practically howls. “Just put a bullet in me, just end it right now. I’m going off to join that great choir in the sky, where I’ll improve all their performances with the delicate introduction of a vuvuzela or two. Christ, I think my hands have gone numb.”

“Just…hold on. I’m coming to get you.” He knows as he says it that he won’t be doing that. The metal beam sways slightly under the wind- and that’s probably just good design, something about making the building more quake resistant. Unfortunately, it also means he can’t risk stepping out onto it. What would he even do? Can’t sling Deacon over his shoulder and carry him back to safety if he can’t risk standing up. Can’t take his hand and drag him if they need both hands to keep balanced.

 _Overall_ , he thinks, _Not the best of situations._

“Okay, so, maybe I’m not coming to get you,” Isaac says, wincing as the wind snatches his words away. He raises his voice. “Beam’s not stable enough.”

Deacon doesn’t say anything. He’s breathing fast, head bowed; might have his eyes closed.

Options. They need options. Isaac looks around for something they might be able to use; rope would be ideal, or maybe some kind of pole. But the ground is all rubble and the debris of a long acquaintance with super mutant tenants. His resources come down to a shotgun slung over his shoulder, ammunition and a stick of blueberry gum in his pocket.

‘Helpless’ is one of his least favourite feelings.

“I could go back to HQ,” he says without much conviction. “My power armour’s there, and Tom probably hasn’t taken it apart. It has jets. I could fly out…” he stops as Deacon shakes his head. “Yeah, you might be right. I’m not sure I’d be able to grab you properly.”

“Don’t leave,” Deacon says. It’s almost too quiet to hear. “I’m not- no more fucking around, I’m being serious here. My hands are numb. I can hold out for another ten minutes. Maybe twenty. If you go, I’m not gonna be here when you come back. Might as well just bring a bucket to scrape what’s left of me off the street.”

 _Might have better luck with a mop,_ Isaac bites back. He’d say it any other time, and Deacon would retort, because half the fun they have together is trying to one-up each other. Deacon’s humour, Isaac’s attitude problem. He’s lost count of how many people have asked them what the fuck their mutual damage is. That’s just how they take on the world.

But Deacon is visibly shaking, breathing like he just ran a marathon, and Isaac is nobody’s ideal partner, but he protects his own.

“We’ve got one option here,” he says flatly. He manages to sound half way authoritative, which is pretty impressive given the situation. “I can’t go to you, so you’re just gonna have to come to me.”

“Oh, fuck you,” Deacon says. “If that was an option, I’d have done it already. I can’t, okay? You need me to keep saying it? Is that what you’re after? Revenge for all the lying? Fine. I’m beaten. I’m done. I’m gonna start hyperventilating any minute now, and then it’s pretty much over.”

“It’s not. Come on, it’d take you thirty seconds tops to make it over here. You can do that. No problem.” There’s a reason he was never made any kind of officer in the army. Nobody with sense would ever put him in charge of motivating anyone else; his bedside manner leaves a lot to be desired. Up until now, he’d figured he made up for it with exceptional aim and a total absence of squeamishness.

Boy, does the universe hate him these days.

Isaac changes tactics. “Betcha that asshole Carrington could do it. And Danse. And MacCready, he totally could. You’re not going to let them be better than you, right?”

“That…is exactly what I’m going to do,” Deacon says. “You just have no idea, do you? You don’t know what this is like. I’m paralyzed. I _want_ to go to you; I’m trying everything I can to make myself move. And it’s _not_ _fucking working._ Maybe I am a synth after all. Maybe some kind of vital brain-body cable got dislodged.”

“Nothing got dislodged. You’re scared, that’s all.”

“And you,” Deacon says, “Are totally fine. You always are. That’s one of the things I really like about you, the way you just armour up and deal with shit. If you lose me, you’ll have someone else by tomorrow. You land on your feet. Me, I’m hoping I land on my head; at least it’ll be over fast.”

“Hope not,” Isaac says. “I like your face. I like all of you, actually. Switching you up for someone else would just feel like downgrading.” He sees the corner of Deacon’s mouth twitch and thinks, _reaction. Good start._

“I am pretty great,” Deacon admits. “But Nick’s a close second. He’ll look after you. Tell him it was my dying wish, and also he can have my favourite trench coat. It’s back in Sanctuary, you know where all my stuff is. Tell him. I’ll rest easy if I know you’ve got Nick at your back.”

The wind dies down a little, less of a deafening whistle in his ears. Isaac crouches at the edge of the beam and pretends he’s not starting to seriously worry. He is, though. He’s not one for panicking, but he lost one partner to a bullet and an underground freezer, and he’s pretty sure that messed him up more than he admits. He can’t lose another. He can’t lose _this_ one.

“I won’t travel with Nick,” he says. “I’ll take Hancock instead. Chems and all. And I won’t try stop him or get him clean or whatever. I’ll just let him do his own thing.”

“He’ll get you hurt,” Deacon snaps. His mouth twists, angry.

“I know,” Isaac tells him. “But I won’t fucking care. When he needs a break, I’ll switch him up for Paladin Danse. I’ll run Brotherhood missions with him until we’re both too tired to stand in our armour. I’ll fetch their artifacts and clear out new bases and convince the locals to hand over resources on pain of death by Vertibird machine gun.” It almost chokes him to say it; if the look on Deacon’s face is anything to go by, he’s not the only one. The Brotherhood rubs them both the wrong way, for different reasons. “I’ll do it,” he says. “I’ll terrify settlers into joining Team Maxson. I’ll help them expand. Danse will be…so fucking proud to see me finally fall into line with his people. He’s always saying I don’t do enough for them.”

“You don’t. Because I won’t _let_ you.”

“Not much you can do about it over there,” Isaac points out. “Or splattered out on the ground. Who’s gonna be my moral compass if you’re gone? Cait? _Glory_?”

“God dammit,” Deacon says, and moves.

It’s a small thing, at first. Just his hands, sliding a few inches on the beam. Then the rest of him, shuffling forward to stay balanced. Isaac watches it happen. His heart is actually pounding; he wants to stride out to Deacon and haul him back to solid ground. And he can’t. This is a one-person fight, and he’s sidelined.

“That’s it,” he breathes. “Come on, you got this. Do it to spite the Brotherhood. Do it as a giant neon ‘fuck you, you annoying, overpowered brat’ to Elder Maxson.”

Deacon laughs, and it’s shaky, but it’s the best thing Isaac’s ever heard. “Trust me, that’s exactly why I’m doing it. Next time I see him, I’m spiking his private liquor stash with super mutant piss. It’s not like he’s even old enough to drink it. And then maybe I’ll steal his coat. It’d look better on me anyways.” He’s still shaking, hands and voice; the corner of his mouth is oozing blood. Bitten tongue or bitten lip. Hard to tell.

They’re low on Stimpacks, but Deacon’s getting one if Isaac has to hold him down to apply it.

“You’re doing great,” he murmurs. Slow but steady, Deacon’s almost half way to him. “Bravest fucking man I ever met. Soon as you’re close enough, I’m gonna grab you, alright?”

“ _Talk_ to me,” Deacon retorts. “Anything, I don’t give a damn. Tell me about what you had for breakfast. Or…the cat you had before a bomb got dropped on your house, back in the day. Or your favourite kind of noodle.”

“We had the same thing for breakfast, you were there. I didn’t have a cat. Closest I ever got to pets was Codsworth, and he belonged to my partner. I was just rooming with them.”

“Ouch,” Deacon says. “So that’s why he’s so grumpy around you.”

“My favourite kind of noodle is a rads-free noodle? Deacon, I don’t do small talk. I’m on the watch list in Diamond City because of how badly I did small talk with Mayor McDonough.” Isaac reaches out; Deacon is still a few feet too far to grab. He’s inching along, painfully slow, but he’s going to make it. He is. And then he’s getting a Stimpack for the panic, and an elevator straight down to ground floor. Possibly followed by the closest thing to an apology Isaac can manage; a pile of dead muties left on his doorstep, or maybe a new safehouse for the Railroad.

“Next time Tom wants a MILA set up, he can do it himself,” Deacon mutters. “I don’t get paid enough for this. Come to think of it, I don’t get paid at all. I’m just giving my labour away because that seems to be the only way to improve this damn world, and if that’s not some kind of commentary on the economy, then…I don’t know.”

“If that’s your way of telling me that I’m fronting up the beer money tonight-”

“See, pretty soon I’m not even gonna need to talk to you,” Deacon says. “We can come up with some kind of non-verbal communication system. If I stroke my chin, it means you need to step away from the Mayor and tell him you’re super sorry you threatened to break him down into small synthy parts and use them to make yourself a bigger gun.”

“What does it mean if you grab my ass out of nowhere?”

Deacon offers him a weak grin. His teeth are bloody. “Depends on where I grab you. One side means ‘enemies’ and the other means ‘friends’, excepting in cases where I just do it because I’m bored. Up to you to work out which it is. I can’t do all the work here.”

He’s almost within grabbing distance. Isaac sits back on his haunches, so tense he’s at risk of pulling a muscle in his neck. He’d like to think that he’ll mock Deacon for this, when they’re back on solid ground. And maybe he will. Maybe they’ll both laugh over it. Right now, laughter is the last thing on his mind.

He’s _scared_ , he realises. It doesn’t happen much. He’d give almost anything to make it not happen again.

“Here,” he says. “Just a little closer and I’ll have you. Just-” And then the wind makes a comeback.

Isaac grabs for the edge of the building to keep himself steady, grateful for his leather gloves. He blinks; his eyes are full of dust. He hears Deacon yelp sharply, and makes a blind grab for him. Misses.

When the dust clears, he finds Deacon gripping the beam sloth-like, chanting broken curses under his breath. His sunglasses as gone. It takes Isaac a second to work out where they went, and then he winces. That’s not going to help matters any. Wind’s getting cold, though, and he’s the only one wearing gloves; Deacon won’t be able to hold on much longer.

“Hey,” he calls, clearing dust from his throat. “Bit breezy up here, huh? If you’re done sightseeing, baby,  I’m ready to leave. Getting hungry. You want to stop at that Greek place we passed on the way here?”

Deacon lifts his chin just high enough for a baleful look. His eyes are red around the edges; he’s far too pale for comfort. “Isaac,” he says quietly. “Lost my sunglasses.”

“No shit.”

“That was my last pair.” Deacon lets his head drop back down onto the beam. “I’ve been going through them faster than Radaway since meeting you. You know I had one eaten by a Deathclaw? ‘Course you do. You were right there, laughing. Why don’t we ever go anywhere nice, huh, pal? Where are all the little kid birthday parties and puppy cuddling sessions and high tea on Sundays? You violent, unreasonable man.”

“That’s me,” Isaac says. “But if you’d just move…thirty centimeters my way, I could be violent and unreasonable and you’d be safe.”

“Can’t. I’m frozen again.”

“Fuck.” If he lunges, he might be able to grab Deacon by the hair and tug him upright- except, of course, he can’t, because it’s a goddamn wig. So much for that plan.

It’s the shaking that’s got him most worried. That, and Deacon’s breathing; he sounds like he’s suffocating, sucking in desperate lungfuls of air. He can’t seem to make it stop.

“Hey,” Isaac calls to him. “That’s a really good idea. Inflate those lungs. You keep doing that, you might float your way to safety. Deacon, come on. Please. You can panic once you’re over here. I have some spare sunglasses in my pack, if that’ll help.”

Deacon lifts his head slightly. “ _Why?_ ” he rasps. “You don’t…ever wear them.”

“Figured you might need spares,” Isaac says helplessly. “And I had free space. They’re in the ammo box with my extra fusion cells.”

For a long moment, Deacon doesn’t say anything. Then he laughs; it’s a frightening sound, blood on his lips and chin. “Careful,” he says hoarsely. “You’ll ruin your heartless bastard rep. People might start thinking you have actual feelings.”

That’s a little uncalled for, but Isaac is prepared to let it slide if it gets Deacon to respond. He watches, heart in his mouth, as Deacon starts inching closer. It’s slower going than before; looks like he doesn’t trust his hands enough to crawl. He’s still panting. The wind tugs at his shirt, but he keeps moving.

The moment he’s close enough, Isaac reaches for him. Grabs the back of his shirt and yanks him somewhat upright, then slides an arm under one of Deacon’s and shoves them both backwards.

His spine hits the concrete hard; he curses. But Deacon is a sold weight on top of him, and he’s safe. They both are.

 _Fuck everything,_ Isaac thinks. _The next MILA is getting dropkicked directly into the river. I bet Tom won’t even notice._ He runs his hands over Deacon’s back. Feels the other man trying to slow his breathing down, one hand coming up to tighten in Isaac’s hair. It stings, but Isaac isn’t complaining. Blood seeps into his collar; the air smells of copper and terror-sweat. And for the first time in two centuries, Isaac feels guilty.

He should have noticed. Deacon was dropping hints all over the place, and it’s Isaac’s fault for not seeing them. He should have. If he’d been thinking about anything other than how great the stupid view was, he would have.

Sometimes, he has to wonder why Deacon sticks with him.

Isaac tilts his head back. Looks up at the evening sky, the speckle of stars, and mouths silent thanks at anyone who’s watching. He swears he’s sorry. He swears he’ll try not to let it happen again- and he means it. He holds himself accountable for something that Deacon won’t, for once; Deacon, of course, will blame himself. For failing the Railroad, and Isaac, and the world in general. He does that, sometimes. When it comes to his own screw-ups, he’s unforgiving.

 _You’re a mess,_ Isaac thinks. _And I’m never letting you go._

He kisses Deacon’s temple, and waits for his partner to come back to himself.


	3. Eight Fucking Traffic Cones

“-And now you gotta turn left at the ruined car yard coming up ahead, the one with the barbed wire fence and totally not suspicious smoke- yeah, you know the one I mean. Left here, then hang a right at the tree that looks kind of like that guy with the wild hair, in that one movie where his pants are basically painted on? So, left, right, and then straight on until morning. At some point we’ll probably pass my safehouse. I was kind of drunk when I covered up the entrance, but I’ll know it when I see it. Promise.”

“Back in my day, we fed backseat drivers to the bomb sniffer dogs,” Isaac snaps. “Saved the army a whole bunch of cash.” His spine is starting to ache; lower back, shoulders screaming. He’s pretty sure that’s a waffle maker trying to burrow into his left-side ribs.

Deacon wriggles, and Isaac almost drops him.

“Could you _stop?_ ”

“Can’t do that, chief,” Deacon says woefully. He drapes over Isaac’s shoulders like an uncooperative cat, reaching across Isaac’s chest to tug at the collar of his Vault suit.

“Why the fuck not?”

“I’m not cut out for this war thing. Honestly, I just showed up ‘cause a buddy of mine told me there’d be free beer? Next thing I know, there’s a basketball-sized hole in my kneecap, and raiders went and drank all the punch. Thank Jesus, Mary, and Rudolph for morphine.” He yanks on the zipper of Isaac’s suit, tugging it halfway down his chest, red-stained fingers slipping on the metal.

Isaac grabs for his hand and pulls it away. “Real helpful, giving everyone an extra target on me. Why don’t I just strip it all off, huh? Leave the body armour alone if you want to make it home alive.”

“Wasn’t gonna take it off,” Deacon retorts. “I was more thinking I’d try for a good, old-fashioned nipple twist. Give me back my sunglasses, asshole. I will show you pain the likes of which your brain can’t comp- compl…brainify.”

“You can have them back when you stop trying to fuck with my Pip-Boy.”

“It’s _right there_! If the Lord did not intend for me to play Snake on that Pip-Boy, why’d he install it, huh? And on the sixth day, he gave mindless video games unto mankind, and he saw that they were just awesome. Oh, man, tell me you got Pinball. The old models did. Let me see.”

“When we get to the safe house,” Isaac says. He skirts the edges of the car yard, smoke and all, stepping careful on the crumbling ground underfoot. He’s still holding Deacon’s hand; too warm, clammy. Drying blood is sticking their fingers together.

 _Fucking goddamn,_ he thinks. _And not one Stimpack between us_.

“Tell me again why we needed the traffic cones,” he says, digging his nails into Deacon’s knuckles to get his attention. “Tell me why we weren’t scouting for meds instead.”

“I can explain,” Deacon says, and Isaac snorts.

“I bet.”

“You remember last week, at the Dugout, we had that Bobrov vodka with the paper umbrellas and that  pink plastic monkey you liked? Which, by the way, I totally kept.”

“I don’t remember any of it,” Isaac lies. “That’s the point of vodka.”

“Isaac, my perfectly preserved popsicle. My pastrami pyjama party playmate. If you ever want to level up to master liar, you’re going to need to grind a lot harder than you are right now. Absolutely no innuendo intended, because I’m leaving a little trail of blood-puddles behind us, and it’s really killing the mood. What was I saying?”

“Traffic cones,” Isaac says. He resists the urge to stop and check for this blood trail; he doesn’t doubt that it’s really there. And if he stops now, he’s not sure he’ll be getting started again. His back is-

Not worth thinking about.

“Oh yeah,” Deacon mumbles. “You were telling me about that pre-war custom. ‘Cause I was like, ‘what even were those traffic cones used for? I’ve been telling Tinker they were party hats’, and you were like, ‘mostly drunk people used to stick them on top of random statues and take pictures of them’. And it just really got to me, you know? There I was thinking you pre-war folks didn’t really have any culture. You shone a light on my…. B word. What was it? Bigamy?”

“Bigotry?” Isaac offers. “Jesus, Deacon, tell me I’m not carrying five fucking traffic cones so you can shove them on any random statues we come across.”

“Eight.”

“What?”

“Eight fucking traffic cones. Get it right.”

“Yeah, that was a totally unforgivable lapse,” Isaac says. “Excuse _me_. _Eight_ traffic cones, both our rucksacks, I don’t even know what else-“

“There’s a typewriter getting really friendly with my left ass cheek,” Deacon says.

“A typewriter, your damn safe house reports, six different costume changes. Anything I missed?”

Deacon makes an aborted shrugging movement. “I’m not totally convinced we needed this broadsword. I don’t even know how you found it. It’s like you have a magnet for large, really unnecessary weapons of death and general ouches.”

“I was thinking I’d give it to Cait.”

“Check you out,” Deacon says. “Rough, angry exterior, gooey caramel heart on the inside. Like a pudding caked in concrete. That’s you, pal. Buddy. Frienderoni.”

He’s sweating. Beads forming on his forehead, his hand slipping through Isaac’s fingers. Too pale for comfort. The bandage job on his leg was rudimentary at best, as battlefield medicine tends to be when interrupted half way by glowing green Deathclaws. Joys of exploring a rads-heavy zone. Isaac is by no means an expert, but he has a feeling they’ll be telling Dez this particular delivery route isn’t going to work out for her ‘packages’.

Railroad HQ is a full day and a half away at a normal pace, and Isaac is moving at a limp. Peering through the sunglasses he _never fucking wears_ but took to piss off Deacon. Ostensibly. It doesn’t hurt that the mid-afternoon sunlight will help keep him awake, either.

“We could just cut it off,” Deacon says. “The leg. You think that would help? I’m game if you are. We got ourselves a nice sharp broadsword, a couple of old newspapers, it’ll be fine. DIY. And then I could have, like, a pirate peg leg, only made out of traffic cone. I could make it work. I’ll just tell people I work for the traffic department.”

“I’ll cut them both off. You don’t want to be asymmetrical.”

“See, shit like that is why I keep you around. Genius.”

“Brains and brawn,” Isaac says. “You get your money’s worth out of us Old Worlders.”

“A whole five caps’ worth at least,” Deacon agrees. “I’ll put them in the piggy bank for you, how’s that? You keep this up, you’ll be a wealthy man in no time.”

“How long until I can buy that Fat Man off KLEO?”

“Fucking never,” Deacon tells him. “Nice try.”

“Buzzkill.”

“Also, unconscious in roughly thirty seconds, give or take.” Deacon’s hand slips out of Isaac’s, hanging limp somewhere in the vicinity of his hip. “World’s started to spin a little. Check me out, Isaac, I can fly! Is it a bird? Is it a plane? No! It’s the Freakin’ Deacon!”

He gets very quiet after that. Isaac gives him an experimental shake; has to compensate to balance him as he starts to slide towards the ground.

“Yeah, okay,” Isaac says. “I thought you were exaggerating. That’s on me.”

He staggers on, gear clanking with every step, sweating through his Vault suit. Nudging Deacon every thirty seconds or so. Can’t afford to put him down; they’ve got a balance going now, and Isaac isn’t sure he’d be able to find it again if he stopped. He’s strong. He’s also human. And sooner or later, something’s gotta give under the strain; he has a feeling it’ll be his spine.

This close to the Glowing Sea, there’s no one friendly enough to help.

He’s been in worse situations, but not many, and if he makes it alive to Deacon’s safe house, there’s going to be hell to pay for the idiot who thought _eight fucking traffic cones_ was a smart thing to scavenge.

Eight.

Possibly more.

He’s never giving Deacon back these sunglasses, whatever underhanded tactic the man tries-

“Turn left in twenty feet,” says a voice in his ear, and Isaac hisses through his teeth. “You have arrived at your destination.”

It’s not much of a safe house; Isaac’s not much inclined to make a fuss.

“I’ll lock you outside,” he threatens, staggering for the hidden door. “You can patch your own damn self up.”

“Isaac,” Deacon says. “My favourite pal. My pacifist panini. I care about you too, asshole. Now put me down so I can bleed out on a horizontal surface like a civilised human being.”

In the morning, they refashion the broadsword into a cane for him to use on the long walk to Isaac’s closest friendly settlement. Still no Stimpacks, but a Nuka Cola will do wonders in a pinch, and duct tape keeps a wound closed when there are no other options. They make do. Eventually, they even make it back to Sanctuary.

(Twelve traffic cones later, the bridge-side Minuteman statute is unrecognisable. It’s almost worth the effort).

_Art courtesy of the absolutely incredible[Bloodwrit](http://bloodwrit.tumblr.com), over on tumblr!_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is dedicated to Bloodwrit, who is AWESOME and possessed of mad art skills (thank you!!!)


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